


you held my hand and life came easy

by knoxoursavior



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: Losing Ragnar is a sword to Canute's chest.
Kudos: 5





	you held my hand and life came easy

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for the vs zine and recently realized that i forgot to post it aaa

_ What is love, you ask? _

  
  


A prince shouldn’t cry; Canute knows this. His father has told him countless times, and he has paid the price for it on all occasions.

Ragnar told him that it would get easier, that as he grows up he will become steel as sharp and unyielding as his father's sword. But Canute has not toughened up, no matter what he tries.

Tears always come to his eyes without his permission, and before he knows it, his father has turned away from him once again.

It's Ragnar who chases after him after and finds him curled up on the floor of his room.

"Oh, look at you. What happened?" 

Canute doesn't answer. He can't, in between his whimpers and his sniffles, but he also doesn't want to tell Ragnar that he tripped on his own two feet and hit his forehead on the stone floor. He already expects a sermon. For crying, definitely. For walking out on dinner, perhaps. He doesn't want to add to the list of things for which Ragnar must scold him.

“Get up, your Majesty.”

It takes all of Canute’s strength just to push himself up, but his arms shake and he loses his nerve and then he’s falling onto the floor once again. He keeps his eyes shut tight and braces himself for another lecture, another disappointed sigh. But instead, there’s the sting of water against the scrape on his forehead and the warmth of Ragnar’s hand on the back of his head, keeping him still.

He opens his eyes, reluctant, and finds Ragnar frowning as he presses a wet cloth against Canute’s forehead.

“You have to be more careful,” Ragnar says. Canute flinches, but Ragnar’s touch is gentle when he moves to clean Canute’s forehead again. “I’ll be done soon, your Majesty. Endure it for a little longer.”

Canute tries. He waits until Ragnar finally puts down the cloth, stained with dirt and blood. He waits until Ragnar says, “Forgive your father. He's tired.”

Ragnar’s voice is soft. It isn’t the same softness of Canute’s; he’s subdued, yes, but there is something more, something that makes Canute reach out to wrap his arms around Ragnar’s neck.

“I know,” he whispers into Ragnar’s shoulder, and wonders if this is what it would feel like to be held by his father.

  
  


_ Are you saying that Ragnar did not love me? _

_... Yes. _

  
  


Canute thinks his brother was kind to him. He isn’t sure; he can't remember much from his childhood. What he is sure of is that he wishes they could see each other again. His brother is far, far away now. A faint memory of broad shoulders, of a heavy hand on the crown of his head. A fleeting comfort.

He asks his father once, if he could visit Harald. Nothing comes of it except a reminder that his brother is more than he could ever dream to be. And perhaps that's true. Canute has only ever dreamt of his father's regard, his acknowledgement, his love, and Harald has those in spades. Regard and acknowledgement, at the very least.

But Canute does not want to lose his brother as he remembers him. He wants to chase after his memories, no matter how vague they are.

So he hopes and he asks Ragnar, “If I run away, will you come with me?”

Ragnar stops. He puts down the knife he’s holding, plants a hand on the table and pushes himself away from it. He bends down and sits, putting himself on Canute’s level as Ragnar always does when speaking to him.

“Where would you even run away to, your Majesty?”

“To visit my brother,” Canute says, and he can see it on Ragnar's face as things fall into place.

“The king has already said that you must stay here,” he says, but it isn’t the answer Canute wants.

“But why? I will not be missed. Father does not need me here, and surely he can spare you for a while.”

Ragnar sighs. He reaches out to hold Canute's arm. Canute does not lean into it.

“Of course you'll be missed, dear child.”

Canute knows how Ragnar softens blows for him. He's no fool. Willfully ignorant perhaps, but he has long figured out how Ragnar lies.

He wishes he could have been born dull and thoughtless and brutish; perhaps he could have been a good Viking then. Perhaps his father would have been proud of him.

Canute turns away. “The only one who could miss me is you, Ragnar.”

Ragnar's grip tightens around his arm before he lets go suddenly, as if burned. Canute does not look at him. Does not allow himself to do so. He waits, until—

“I'll ask your father again,” Ragnar says finally.

Canute turns back to Ragnar. Finds him with his head bowed, eyes hidden in shadow. He's gotten the answer he wanted, but seeing Ragnar like this feels like losing much, much more than he risked.

He reaches up to press his lips against the crown on Ragnar's head.

“Thank you.”

"Anything for you, your Majesty," Ragnar replies, and Canute believes him. 

  
  


_ Then it is my turn to ask of you. If Ragnar had no love... then who in the world does embody real love? _

_ He does. There. He is dead, and therefore more beautiful than anyone alive. _

  
  


Losing Ragnar is a sword to Canute's chest. It aches every moment of every day. It will ache until he finally bleeds to death, and it will ache even when he has been buried in the ground.

He has a grave marked for Ragnar in England. His body is lost to the elements now, but his soul can be nowhere but with God himself. If it isn't true—well, then not a lot of people in this world have hope of being laid to rest in paradise.

Canute visits him every morning and watches the sun rise there.

Today, Askeladd stands at his shoulder.

“Do you think he's watching over us now?” Canute asks. He looks up at the sky, tinted orange and blue and painted over with clouds. Ragnar would have loved the sight, if Canute had pointed it out to him.

“We can only hope.”

Canute glances at Askeladd and wonders how much he means his words. Perhaps he only means to comfort Canute. Perhaps he does hope that the man he killed is now free to do as he pleases. Askeladd's expression reveals nothing; Canute will understand him one day, as sure as he is that he will one day rule over England and Denmark.

Canute turns back to the cross that marks Ragnar's grave.

“If he isn't, then I shall chase him to hell and take him back.”

“Careful, your highness. Your words verge on blasphemy.”

Canute laughs.

“When have you ever cared about blasphemy?”

Askeladd's existence itself is blasphemy, he does not say. The Vikings were made in the image of God but they act like animals. That Canute has sworn to lead them—well. He'll have to accept that he may never see Ragnar again, even in his dreams.

And just then, Askeladd replies.

“Wherever Ragnar is now, it's out of your hands. It would be better for you to accept that, your Majesty.”

He always seems to know to hit where it hurts. Canute grits his teeth.

“Brave words from the man who killed him,” he says, and takes satisfaction in the way Askeladd quiets.

“I apologize if I've overstepped, your highness.”

“You have,” Canute says. He gathers his anger into the palms of his hands and keeps it there. A weapon to be used, but not yet. He continues, “However, I suppose that's your duty as my advisor, so I'll forgive it.”

Askeladd bows his head. “Thank you, my liege.”

He takes his leave. Canute will follow him later, but for now, he stays where he is, looking up at the sky and hoping.

  
  


_ The emotion a father feels for his child... what a husband and wife feel for each other... what Ragnar felt for me... what is that? _

_ Discrimination. _

  
  


Love is selfless. It is bigger than himself, bigger than the world he's living in.

Canute is starting to hate it. 

Fighting for the greater good, fighting to save the very men God has abandoned—it can be nothing but selfless, and yet Canute has found himself feeling more and more like the devil with every move he makes.

But that changes. With one decision, one moment of weakness, of wanting to see an old friend again. He used to visit Ragnar's grave and feel shame come to him every time. Today, he stands at Ragnar's grave, his heart the lightest it has been in years. 

“I saw Thorfinn again,” he says, and hopes the wind will carry his voice to Ragnar, wherever he is now. “Not any taller than he was back then.”

Ragnar felt enough for him to put him above anybody else, to treat him as more important, more deserving of life. Canute does not know if Ragnar would feel the same if he knew everything Canute has done. Does not know if Ragnar's discrimination could extend as far as Canute would have pushed it. He hopes so. 

“I miss you. You'll have to wait a little longer to see me again, dear Ragnar.”


End file.
